Routine
by novocaine.candycane
Summary: ONESHOT. Everyday is the same scene. Like clockwork gears, spinning 'round. Everyday is the same scene, and everyday is the same nightmare.


What I'm saying is, we live a routine life.

You stir beside me at sunrise. It doesn't matter if I'm still sleeping, if you're dead tired, or if it's too hard for you to move with my fingers tightly entwined with yours. You turn left, turn right, left again, and open your eyes. Sometimes, when you're not holding me close enough before I fall asleep, you can gently let go of my waist to make sure I stay asleep, and stare at the clock. You count the seconds you lie there. One time, I saw you mouthing the numbers. As usual, sleep eludes you like a butterfly before your eyes. Close enough for you to see, but too fast for you to grasp.

You sigh.

In my sleep, I dream of Wonderland.

I dream of clouds shaped like fluffy sheep, lush forests, and bright pink cherry blossoms. I dream of you and your haunting green eyes. I see you run around happily, dancing with the soft breeze of spring. I can see that you're happy, and it makes me feel optimistic.

But then the nightmares haunt me, at the same time every day.

I see you, crouching there, beside someone who's almost gone completely. I can hear their clock ticking loud in my ears because I'm asleep and dreaming. But you, within my dream, can't hear a thing. You're deafened by the sound the body below you is making, as if the almost-corpse is writhing in pain. The truth is, the person is dead silent. You need to make sure that person is dead. It is your duty. You take your curved knife, gold handle illuminated by the rising sun, and examine it. I have about 5 seconds to tell you:

"No, Pierce. Don't do it. Run. Please! Run!"

But you aren't scared. Your expression is feral and dangerous. Your eyes are half-hidden beneath your eyelids and your lashes. I see you trace your index finger down the blade of your knife. You draw blood from your finger, but you don't seem to mind. By now, your lips curve into a smile. I'm almost comforted, before I realise that I've seen this same dream yesterday. You're smiling the smile of Wonderland's gravedigger.

You raise your left hand which holds your knife tightly, and you point the tip of the blade at the person's heart. Where their clock should be. You press down.

I want to stop seeing this.

So I try to cover my eyes. I rush to cover my ears.

My attempts are in vain. The me in dream state is slow and unwilling to comprehend my urgency.

I catch a glimpse of you, raising your left hand again. You must've missed the clock.

"This time for sure…"

I hear you say, before I scream, "No! Don't…"

The last image I see is the most terrifying. I tell myself, '_It's okay, it's alright. He's dead. Pierce got his clock, so don't worry_'. I almost convince myself I'll be okay, and then I see the corpse, raising its limp arm and burying your own blade within your chest.

The look of surprise on your face wakes me every day.

I gasp and will myself to catch my breath…

And then you're sitting there, chest exposed. I can see the rise and fall of it, slow and calming. I match my breathing with yours. There is no wound where your clock is. '_It's okay. It's alright._' You stare down at me worriedly, lips forming a loose frown. I feel your hand, gentle on my forehead, wiping away beads of sweat.

"Shh. It's okay Alice! It's okay. I'm here. Shh…" You murmur.

You make me feel like a child, and I hate it. Even still, the thought that you're still here, perfectly unwounded, gives me solace.

I tangle my hands in your hair and pull your face down and kiss your breath away.

All of a sudden, way too soon, you break away and smile apologetically. You take a breath and say, "Alice, I've got to go! I'm sorry! I'll be back before noon. I promise! Here, chu!"

You eyes soften considerably. You chuckle and give me a quick peck on the cheek. You stand up and take my hand, kiss there, too.

I watch you grab your clothes, redress, and take your blade in your left hand. You turn back and look me in the eye, and I get up and look at your index finger just to make sure that there's no scar. Sure enough, there isn't. You wave goodbye and walk off down the pebble garden path.

… You always lie.

You're always back a little after noon.

But it's okay. You're always back, unharmed. You eat your ham and cheese sandwich happily everyday. You take me outside with you after lunch, hand in hand, everyday. We laugh and smile and kiss and have dinner everyday.

You cradle me within your arms at night, everyday.

Everyday is the same scene. And everyday, I live in the terror of my nightmare. Simply because I am the gravedigger's wife.


End file.
